"I thank you," she said, and her eyes seemed to lighten as they looked into his. "You are a violent man, but not vile—as some. You have gone deep, and you meant to kill me to-morrow—or is it to-night? But I mean to save you from that."
"I think not, mistress."
"I think 'yes,' stepson—that is, if you believe that, killing me, you will kill also your father's child!"
For a moment he did not understand. His eyes travelled over her as she stood erect, stretching out her hands.
Suddenly his head sank. He did not cry out, though he knew—as she knew— that the truth of it had killed him. Not for one moment—it was characteristic of him—did he doubt. In her worst enemy she found, in the act of killing him, her champion against the world.
He groped for the door, unlocked it, and passed out.
In the kitchen he spoke to Jane the cook, who ran and escorted Mrs. Stephen, not without difficulty, up to her own room.
Roger remained as she left him, staring into the fire.
XV.
He served the supper himself, explaining Jane's absence by a lie. Towards midnight the volunteers began to arrive, dropping in by ones and twos; and by four in the morning, when Roger withdrew to his attic to snatch a few hours' sleep, the garrison seemed likely to resume its old strength. The news of the widow's capture exhilarated them all. Even those who had come dejectedly felt that they now possessed a hostage to play off, as a last card, against the law.